


To Himling: Part Ten

by vetiverite



Series: To Himling [10]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brain Injury, Brothers, Coma, Durin Family, Durin Family Angst, Durin Family Feels, Durincest, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Sex, Ghost Thorin, Ghost Thrain, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Intrigue, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Tauriel? Who's Tauriel?, tropes tropes tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-08-14 08:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20189527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: The path ahead is strewn with stones, but a friendship rich in loyalty helps Fíli maintain his footing.





	1. Family

_You’re late and your mother’s furious, _Fenja lied. 

Fíli paused on the mudroom threshold. He studied Fenja without expression for a long moment, then smiled peaceably and began scraping his heels on the iron bootjack. 

_Very good,_ thought Fenja. Even if Fíli was not to rule, the kingly art of self-control would serve him well. 

Not at all furious, Dís sat dreaming at the kitchen table. She, too, had absorbed the lessons buried in Fenja’s mischief so thoroughly that restraint now came as second nature. Certainly her present mellow countenance betrayed nothing of past hours spent in worried thought. 

_Set aside the strangeness of it,_ she told herself over and over. _You know this is fated to be._

Laughter – Fíli’s muted, Kíli’s full-throated – spilled from the mudroom. Its familiarity opened an aching space within Dís’ breast. As they entered (Kíli holding the door for Fíli, who in turn held it for Fenja), she took in their relaxed postures, their peaceful faces. Her Fíli smiled with soft eyes; her Kíli blushed and dipped his head like a sweet shy child. They came and crowded her on the bench, one on either side. 

_Set aside the strangeness, _Dís told herself once again. _Hold to the truth._ Nothing had changed. The sun could fail to rise in the morning before she could fail to love her children. _That_ was the truth. 

Fíli pressed the bridge of his nose fondly against her cheekbone. _Where is our other brother?_

So Fíli and Kíli had nicknamed Ori, as though only one rune miswritten in some obscure ledger barred him from full, uncontested siblinghood. True, Ori and his brothers lacked noble upbringing (and in Nori’s case, untarnished repute) but Thorin had liked and trusted them, and so did Dís. 

_He’s eaten already and gone to my sitting room, _she said. _He is writing in his journal. All’s well?_ This last addressed in a whisper to Kíli. He nodded, a tiny happy smile lifting the corners of mouth, and ducked his head again to whisper back. _Ahhh!_ Dís exclaimed and leaned against him. 

He’d come to her in a trembling rage that afternoon, threatening to take his bow and his bedroll and disappear into the forest and never, ever show his face to Fíli again. If her youngest had meant it, Dís knew, he wouldn’t have stood there talking; he’d already be gone. No: what he really wanted was to be helped over and past this anger. So she did, and he’d sped away as quick as a kestrel, returning with a fist mutely thrust out for her to open. 

Of course she trusted Fíli implicitly, but rogue fears of him rejecting Kíli's token had gripped her all day long. Now to learn that not only had he his own to give, but one exactly like Kíli's! She squeezed Fíli's forearm, and he covered her hand with his. 

_I hope you like cockerel stew, _Fenja called to them from the hearth. _I hope our visitors like it, too, because it’s all they may get. No one’s even nearly ready to slaughter, and the hunt’s a month away._

Dís touched Kíli’s face to command his attention. _Don’t worry, my love,_ she whispered. _We’ll look for meat in the towns— not the deer forest._

Fenja set down two bowls of stew and a half-loaf of bread, then fetched the brothers’ cup and a bottle of stout. As she took a seat on the bench opposite, Fíli marked her weary look. He poured the stout and pushed the cup across to her. 

Silence reigned for a time. When the stout bottle was empty and the bowls scraped clean, Dís rapped the tabletop with her knuckle to call her sons to order. 

_I want to talk with you,_ she began, grasping Fíli’s nearest hand. _About the elders._

Fíli scratched at a flaw in the wooden tabletop with his other thumbnail and said nothing. 

_It is reasonable that they should want an audience with their Sovereign._ Dís kept her tone even. _They’re going to bend your ear with a thousand grievances, opinions, pieces of advice. They'll have a list of chieftains' daughters for you to marry... _She paused to thump a coughing Kíli’s back. 

_All the daughters, or just one? _Fíli wanted to know. 

_In your case, none. But I saw it happen to Thorin, and it will surely happen to you. It's extremely tiresome, but you need to be very, very patient. Do you remember the advice I gave you?_

_I remember, Mother. I’ll do my best, _Fíli replied slowly. 

Dís rubbed her younger son’s shoulders. _And you, Trouble?_

_I’ll be good if th-they’re good, _came Kíli’s sullen response. Dís waited him out, and Fenja helped by tapping his shin with her foot. Presently he shrugged. _I’ll be good._

_You must, if the elders are to be kept ignorant of our plans._ Dís smoothed the tabletop with her palms. _You know that I stand with you. So does Tharkûn; so does Ninur— and so will Dáin._ At a skeptical glance from Fíli, Dís turned her palms up. _Yes, I know. People say that he was Thorin’s rival and coveted the Crown for himself. They say the same things now that you are Heir. Many are the tales, but who are the tellers? People who don’t even know us!_ Turning her palms down, she slapped the tabletop. _And so what if Dáin does covet the Crown? We _want _him to want it!_

Fíli got up to stretch. _What will he think of an Heir who doesn’t?_

_He’ll volunteer to be the Heir who does,_ said cynical Fenja. 

_Come, now,_ Dís chided, but with understanding. Dáin’s bombast did wear a person down. She turned back to Fíli. _I think that Dáin will do his duty by the family._

_Since I won’t._ Fíli’s gaze dropped to the floor. _Dáin was right to be loyal to Thorin; he has no reason to be loyal to me. I’ll owe him everything before this is over. I hope… _He glanced at Dís over his shoulder. _I don’t expect his friendship after this, but I don’t want us to be enemies. I hope most of all that he’ll be kind to you._

With the smug pleasure of a mother cat, Dís appraised her eldest and was glad at what she found: a steady, good-hearted, faithful child. His rocky path was overdue to turn smooth. 

_The scouts have returned from Himling, _she announced. _They found Thorin’s marker._

Fíli spun around, eyes alight, and Dís felt Kíli’s hands on her shoulders. After so much recent upheaval, her heart swelled with gratitude to have some small good news to deliver. 

_Now all your plans will come to pass,_ she exulted. _And Kíli will not have cracked so many book-bindings in vain._

The mention of books prompted Kíli to frown. _Does Ori know?_

_No. The telling’s up to you. But I’m glad he and Nori came, aren’t you? They’re trusty fellows and able to keep secrets. _Dís crossed her arms over her breast to rest her hands atop Kíli’s. _I’m happy you’ve a good friend here tonight._

They would have gone to Ori immediately if Dís had not spoken again. _Wait; boys._ She seemed uncertain of how to navigate her own curiosity_. May I please… will you let me see?_

Again that opaque, measuring look, then Fíli reached for his belt pouch. 

The two diamonds were of like size and clarity, though Fíli’s (now properly Kíli’s) had a slightly more oval shape. Equal, yet not identical. Dís stirred them around the table surface with one fingertip to assess their lustre with her jeweler’s eye. 

Fenja leaned across the table to see. _What rings they’d make,_ she said. 

Dís’ eyes met each son’s in turn and found accord there. Their pledge had been exchanged. With her skill, it would soon be visible to all, upon their hands. In solidarity she would wear her diadem, and the strangers would think only that sand diamonds were a talisman peculiar to the Durins.


	2. Friends

In the corridor leading to the sitting room Kíli whispered to Fíli, _Sh-should we sit apart?_

He’d felt brash earlier with Fíli in his arms, but now he could not put from his mind the image of their friend’s dismay. It was long ago, yes, but they were no longer children, and it was no longer talk. 

Fíli gave Kíli’s nape a comforting squeeze. _Have we ever before?_

As they entered, Ori laid down his pen and closed his leather travel diary. Framed in its woolen cowl, his quaint, kindly face creased in an eager smile. 

When young, he’d resembled a tiny, wizened elder decked out in child’s costume. Now grown, he’d reclaimed his lost youth only to garb it in the trappings of old age. Pink-cheeked and sprightly, he appeared ten years Kíli’s junior rather than five years his senior. But he acted fifty years older and probably always would. 

Now he shuffled forward and flung out his arms: _Brethren!_

A newcomer expecting a weak embrace from Ori usually walked away nursing a powerful crick in the neck. But those in the know valued the fervor of his affection. Rocked back and forth in Ori’s wiry arms, Kíli felt his nerves settle. He need not have worried about sitting too close to Fíli, either, for Ori – small as he was – knew how to take up space. 

Shoehorned together on the settee, the three relaxed into laughter and trivial talk. News of family and the whereabouts of friends; plans to introduce Ori around the forge. Describing how he and Nori reached Thorinutumnu via the deer forest, Ori took care to tell Kíli, _We didn’t see Dajnûna. But I imagine she’s busy raising those fawns of hers._

Beside him, Fíli felt his _naddith_ hum in satisfaction. Dís had explained at least some things to Ori. 

Talk of travel jogged their guest’s memory. He scuttled to the desk, returning with a wax-sealed trifold of silky mulberry paper which he handed to Kíli. _Salutations from the Shire!_

Written in Westron transcribed into Cirth, the letter displayed a hand as meticulous and elegant as Ori’s own. But Kíli - never an avid reader even in his native Khuzdul - immediately passed the letter to Fíli, who recited aloud: 

> _My dear lads, I am awfully remiss. I SO wish to see you, and now I WILL, thanks to your kind invitation. I deeply regret not asking for it sooner, and I promise to come as soon as ever I am able._

Kíli snickered. _He, he wr-writes just like he talks!_

_Hush,_ said Fíli, and continued: 

> _No doubt Gandalf has told you of my recent property troubles. Nothing I own is especially rare, but each lowly object in Bag End has value TO ME— more so, I think, since the evening Thorin & Co. appeared on the doorstep. I am determined to get it all back, down to every last button and bell-pull._

He read ahead silently, eyes misting. When he resumed, his tone was low and affectionate. 

> _The hallways of Bag End still seem to echo with your merry voices. Thorin’s voice was not merry, but for me, it somehow echoes most of all. Do you know, I dreamt of him the other night? He seemed so real, and so happy to see me, I wish it had not been only a dream. Your present, however, is a consolation. I cannot quite find the words to express how much it touched me. The dear friend to whom it once belonged will never be forgotten by this hobbit so long as he lives._

All three sat quietly, remembering. Then Fíli laughed and elbowed Ori. _Listen up, you._

> _And so I close, so as to send this letter with Ori and Nori, who are now on their way to you. Heaven help my poor pantry, picked to the BARE BONES!_

Ori giggled. _There was smoked gammon,_ he said. _And candied fruit._

_Not any more,_ said Kíli. 

_I wish Bilbo would beat the strangers here. _Fíli briskly refolded the letter, sharpening the creases between his fingernails. _If they saw him on his high horse, they wouldn’t dare annoy us._

_He’s already begun to pack,_ Ori announced and received his second happy Kíli-hum of the evening.


	3. Husbands

Back home with Dori, Ori crouched in a shallow wooden tub once a week, scrubbing like mad under a stingy trickle of tepid water. On the road with Nori, a cold river plunge was the best he could hope for; rain took care of the rest. If he didn’t love the Durins so much, one could credibly accuse Ori of visiting Thorinutumnu for the hot water alone. 

Already he’d had enjoyed so many delights— an afternoon spent with motherly Dís; a real meal on a real plate at a real table; the joy of delivering Bilbo’s letter. Now came Fenja peering around the jamb. _Come on, lads; bath time!_ If a flaw hid somewhere in this heaven, Ori would be hard-pressed to find it. 

Instead it found Kíli. 

One minute he was laughing, merry, smoothing down his sleek dark hair with a handful of water; the next, his smile dwindled to nothing and he clung to the cistern rim, empty-eyed, jaw working in a fixed mindless rhythm. Fíli didn’t panic; he merely swam up behind Kíli and slipped one arm around his ribs, saying, _I’ve got you, Zanid._

Ori helped him to shepherd Kíli up the steps and onto the flagstones, where he sat shivering violently. _It’s part of his fit; it passes,_ Fíli assured Ori. He wrapped a large, thick towel around Kíli and began rubbing his back in wide, soothing circles. _When it’s bad, he fights hard and then falls senseless. When he only shivers, it means he’ll be all right in a little while. Isn’t that so, Zanid?_

Anyone else would find such composure during a crisis unseemly, but Ori understood Fíli better than most. Among Thráin’s kin, _sangfroid_ generally concealed its exact opposite. The cooler a Durin’s demeanor, the more fire in his heart. Still, Ori had to ask: _Can Kíli hear you?_

_I don’t think so, _Fíli replied. _But if he can, I don’t want him to feel scared._

They spread another towel on the floor for Kíli to lie upon. His shuddering had slowed, but he kept his limbs folded close to his body and fingers fisted around his thumbs like a baby. 

Crouching nearby, Ori hugged his knees. _He seemed so well until now. I didn’t realize he still suffered._

_The healers say he’s getting better and better._ Fíli reached to pull wet strands of hair off of Kíli’s cheeks. _They also say he’s ill and always will be. We don’t know which is right._

_Was it the water’s heat that caused it, do you think?_

_No. It’s been an exciting day. It's better when things are calm._

As if in agreement, Kíli let out a thin moan. 

_Zanid!_ Fíli darted a look over his shoulder at Ori. _There’s a basin in the corner; would you go get it? He sometimes gets sick after._

_Of course!_ Ori leapt at the chance to be of some use. 

A string of thick, unintelligible words escaped Kíli’s lips. Though still closed, his eyes roved from side to side. He uncurled the fingers of one fist, and his brother grasped them. 

_I’m here, yasthûnê,_ replied Fíli. 

Ori dropped the basin. 

Like a spun penny it whirled on its rim, sending up a ghastly metallic racket. Louder still was Ori’s own heart, thundering like a war drum within his ribcage, but loudest of all was the word Fíli had spoken. Startled into rudeness, Ori snatched the basin up to stop its noise and thrust it roughly into his friend’s hand. 

For a long moment, Fíli remained stock-still, watching Ori, his own eyes unreadable. Placing the basin gently on the floor between them, he turned to lift his brother’s hand to his cheek. 

_I’ll see to Kíli._ His quiet voice held neither shame nor resentment; he had already cast his lot. _You don’t have to stay._

Ori quailed. _Why would I want to go?_

Fíli said nothing. 

Ashamed of his own churlishness, Ori groped for some kind deed that might cancel it out, or at least demonstrate that he, too, had a lot to cast. He whisked a towel from the stack and unfurled it over Fíli as Fíli had done for his brother, then knelt close by his side. 

_Because of a word?_ he scolded. _What do you take me for?_

Still Fíli said nothing, only stroked Kíli’s forearm. 

_It’s not as though you didn’t tell me long ago. It’s not as though I haven’t seen. All you’ve done is put a word to it. _Ori stretched out his warm, large-knuckled hand to cover theirs. _You know me. Say what you need me to do, and I’ll do it._

Age-old camaraderie slowly gained the lead over new doubt. Fíli’s tongue nervously swiped his lower lip; he spoke in a tone more plaintive than Ori had ever heard before. _Be our friend. We will need one._

_Only one? You have many._

Fíli glanced at his comrade with unconcealed worry. _For now._

Ori’s mild expression turned fiery. Coming from one so unassuming, his wrath could startle those foolish enough to cross his kin. _Anyone who loves you always will. If they say they won’t anymore, I’d say they never did. I think you know which you’ve got in me._

_Nnnh,_ groaned Kíli and made a peculiar face. Fíli swiftly placed the basin next to him and moved to lift him half-upright. He gagged and spat several times and then lay back down. _'Sthûnê,_ he whispered. Once more for Ori, the word caused a frisson— lesser than the first, but instantaneous. _Did I…?_

_Yes, but not too badly. Ori’s going to stay with you while I get Mother._ Fíli flashed an inquisitive look at Ori, who nodded eagerly. _Promise to lie still, Zanid?_

_Mmmmmnh._

Fíli wound the towel securely around his waist and swiftly coiled his wet hair into a topknot. _She won’t be asleep just yet, _he told Ori. _Keep him talking if you can._ He touched Ori’s damp, matted head. _I’m glad you’re here, Other Brother._

Then he was off.


	4. Away

Kíli’s face had regained some of its color, and his eyelids had opened the barest slit. His mournful voice echoed hollowly within the stone bath chamber: _Sssorry._

_I’m the sorry one, my friend. _Ori took Kíli’s hand. His grip was not yet strong, but definite enough to give Ori confidence. _How do you feel?_

Kíli smacked his lips and frowned. He pushed himself up and spat into the basin once more, then rested his head on his arm. _Sick._

_How so?_

_Like… _Kíli made a tight fist with his other hand and pressed it hard against his solar plexus. 

_Kíli… what happens to you when… when this happens?_

_I fall. Fall and fall..._

_Where do you go?_

_Away._

_Where?_

_Sometimes… _Kíli struggled and strained to waylay the thought. _It all... It..._ His failure to capture it left him stranded and frustrated. _Nnnn...nowhere._

_I'm certain there will be many very fine healers in Erebor who could—_

_Nnnnnh...!_ The violence of Kíli's reaction to this well-meaning suggestion was such that Ori feared another convulsion. Kíli seized his hand in a much tighter and more painful grip and tried to speak. He could not break through the barrier his mind contrived to build in his tongue's path, so he gave up the effort and stared intently into Ori's eyes instead. 

By now, Ori was adept at reading his other brothers’ unspoken messages. Fíli delivered all of his with his body: squared shoulders, pulled-in elbows, a drooping head or its dangerous opposite, lifted chin and belligerent jut of jaw. But he’d never possessed eyes that spoke as clearly as Kíli’s— and Kíli’s were shouting now. 

A premonitory chill traveled down Ori's spine. He felt as though he was lost in Mirkwood at midnight. _You're not going to Erebor,_ he whispered. _You're going to stay here in Khagal’abad. No— not even Khagal’abad. Elsewhere._

Kíli immediately relaxed. But all of his distress had passed to Ori. 

Along with most of dwarrowkind, Ori's life consisted of more goings than stayings. He had become a scrivener because the written word lasted; no flesh-and-blood companion could possibly offer so much permanence as the craft for which Mahal had made him. If his pen and paper were taken from him, Ori as he knew himself would cease to exist. 

Mahal had also created Fíli and Kíli's troth. If they were wed, how could they live apart? Had their shared path come to some strange fracture? They could be so damnably obstinate... Or had Dís forbidden Kíli to follow his brother to the Lonely Mountain? For without question, Fíli would go... 

Would he not? 

Kíli's chuckle broke through Ori’s inner tumult. If sorrow ruled his fate, he did not seem aware of it. _You are confused,_ said his eyes more quietly now. _We’ll soon explain._ He reached up and drew Ori’s overgrown bangs across his brow, tucking the ends behind his opposite ear. _This,_ he whispered. 

Laugh lines creased Ori's cheeks. _You and I used to braid for ourselves. Now I'll be the only one._ It was his way of allowing that he knew now how things stood between the brothers. 

Kíli’s eyes flared first with surprise, then settled joy. _I'll br...braid... for N'dad-Ori._

_Don't tell Dori that, he keeps his shears sharp on me—_

Footsteps, voices. Dís and Fíli (now robe-clad) entered, followed by Bhurin, then Haya carrying more nightclothes. Bashfulness instantly tied Ori's tongue. Despite his fidelity to his craft, in Haya his inkpot and quill found serious competition. Hot water wasn't Thorinutumnu's only draw. 

The sight of his mother gentled Kíli's tense expression. Relief made her cheerful as well: she knelt and tapped her younger son's nose with her fingertip. _Hello, Trouble. I want you to sleep in your old room tonight._

_The shrine room?_ inquired Ori. In his puzzlement, he forgot to blush as Haya handed him a robe. 

_It's closer than ours. Fewer steps,_ said Fíli. He, too, sounded more relaxed now. _There's a fire, and Fenja is making up a pallet for us. You will sleep with us tonight, won't you?_ He knew that Nori's absence and the subsequent likelihood of sleeping alone was a fount of anxiety for his friend. 

Dís and Haya managed to clothe Kíli, then all combined their might to lift and carry him. His native mischief was returning along with his voice. _Ori..._ he croaked. _Haya has a cr-craft._

_Oi, don't tease,_ admonished Dís, but Haya leveled a look of outright poison at Kíli. _I'm only just learning,_ she muttered. _To grind and mix pigment._

_For dye?_ Ori squeaked. 

_For book-paint and ink._

The scarlet of Ori's cheeks could have been her masterwork.


	5. Holy Things

Some accuse Khazâd of honoring things more than beings. In their eyes, no separation exists. Though inanimate, objects are seldom soulless, for they absorb the spirits of the living, dead, and divine. Even a thing of plain make, little worth, and humble purpose may house its owner's might. One sees kindling axes, spindles, tongs, pin boxes and bootlaces given the honored place on the home altar. Outsiders point and laugh at their peril. 

Defiled things, on the other hand, are those whose offended spirits have fled. Often that which folk think most wondrous and fine — a jewel, a throne, a crown, a mountain — is in fact most vulnerable to taint. Such things possess a telltale chill of which Khazâd fear to speak. No sane person will approach them; they cannot be made clean. 

If any line separates things and people, its name is redemption. Objects cannot save themselves, but people can, when they will it. If evil has turned them, love can turn them back. 

Sitting cross-legged on the pallet laid before Thorin’s altar, Ori thought of Erebor. A house lives so long as its own wights dwell within, but the Lonely Mountain was empty. Smaug had driven everything out— living, dead, and divine. No wonder the place made Thorin ill. Accursed places drive even the sanest of men mad— 

_(That I was: mad.)_

No one heard these words but Ori, but at that very moment, the strings of Thorin’s harp rang untouched. 

_Quit fretting, Ori, _Fíli chided him. _It does that all the time. It means he’s with us._

_Well, that’s comforting! _Ori retorted. But oddly, the thought did hearten him. 

Fenja once said that after death, her soul would inhabit her cooking spoon, purveyor of both nourishment and punishment. Dís hoped to reside in her jeweler's loupe, capable of seeing every beauty as well as any flaw. Ori would of course live on in his best pen, given him by Dori for his thirty-fifth birthday. Fíli and Kíli already lived in each other; they needed no other home. 

Thorin had never wanted to play this game. It only made him sullen, thinking about the coveted lost Arkenstone. If he'd ever wished to make that gem his totem, his dream had come true: it now weighted down his remains in Erebor. 

Yet perhaps all that Erebor claimed of Thorin was an empty body, while his living spirit played harp in Thorinutumnu... 

Next to Ori, Kíli drifted in noisy slumber— humming, grunting, smacking his lips. At one point, out of nowhere, he testily informed no one: _It IS the same, it just takes a stone instead of an arrow!_ Fíli and Ori turned purple tamping down their laughter. 

Their talk had long outlasted midnight, but though his heavy eyelids claimed differently, Fíli insisted he wasn’t tired yet_. I want to know what you think of Himling,_ he whispered across Kíli. _Yesterday it was a notion, but soon it will be real._

_Well, you’ve talked about it for so long, by now I even believe in the troll,_ Ori replied. Now that he knew all, their conversation could once more carry its share of ordinary humor. _I’d worry about you and Kíli no matter where you lived. But I worry less thinking about you on Himling, or here. The thought of you in Erebor—_

_Ssshh!_ Fíli cautioned sharply. He looked to see if the word had bled into Kíli's dream, but his _naddith _slept on. Still, he switched to hand-signs to be safe. 

_(Forgive me. That name scares Kíli.)_

_(It scares me, too. I'm glad you're not going back.)_

_(Dáin will think differently.)_

Ori waved these words off.

_(Dáin will surprise you, given a chance.)_

Fíli shrugged, but Kíli mumbled aloud, _He's right, my love, Dáin will be true..._

With an indulgent grin, Fíli fitted himself close to sleepy Kíli, nuzzling the hollow behind his brother's ear. There was no more sense in hiding such things from Ori, and indeed Ori would not have asked for it. 

Men and Elves say of Dwarves that they value only treasure. While true of some Dwarves, the same could be said of some Men, or some Elves. The price Khazâd pay for nourishing others’ greed is to be accused of the same. But what they truly value, they never trade away. Indeed, they may never speak of it. It cannot be held in the hand or seen by the eye. Khazâd store such treasure in the heart. 

Even so, the sight of the brothers' faces close together in the golden lamplight made Ori’s throat tighten. He longed to fetch his book, pen, and ink; he'd draw his dear friends exactly as they were right now, preserving for the future this present moment of calm... 

A single sweet note reverberated from Thorin's harp. 

_(Worry not. It will keep.)_


End file.
